You Replaced Me
by SomeoneSarah
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. 6 months pass before Sherlock returns, only to find that someone else is living with John. Can Sherlock learn to accept this new flatmate? And what is so different about her? No slash. Warning: child abuse/rape themes. Not graphic.
1. Chapter 1

A tall, rather pale man stands in the cemetery. His long trench coat dances about him in the cool wind, and he tightens the blue scarf around his neck and turns up his collar. Slender hands shoved in his pockets, Sherlock Holmes waits patiently. It is about noon, and John Watson is due to visit his old friend's grave site. Just as he has done every Saturday for the past six months.

It isn't long before his expectations are fulfilled. Sherlock's already perfect posture straightens just a little more as a man with unkempt blonde hair and that favorite gray sweater limps into his line of sight. The detective's previously blank features crumple in a concerned frown after a second. John doesn't look well. Since returning from the war, it hadn't been an uncommon thing for his old injuries to act up again and for John to walk with a slight limp. But this is no ordinary limp; it is heavy and painful, without the aid of his cane. He's suffering.

Sherlock immediately starts toward his friend, wanting desperately to help. His eyes never leave the shorter man as he approaches a shiny black headstone. He stands before it for a moment. Sherlock is now close enough to see the agony in his eyes, and he watches in horror as John lets out a strangled sob and collapses to his knees.

"John!" Sherlock is running now. He dodges and leaps over headstones to reach his despairing companion.

Dr. Watson starts and looks around wildly at the sound of his name. He knows that voice. _'I must be going insane,'_ he thinks to himself. But he answers cautiously anyway. "Sherlock?"

And then he sees him. Running with a look of intense concern on his face, is Holmes. John feels his jaw physically drop as the detective reaches him and crouches beside him. He places a hand on his shoulder and stares into his eyes, searching.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock squeezes his shoulder gently but firmly.

John's fist connects with those amazing cheekbones before he knows what he is doing. He is on his feet in an instant and backs away quickly. Confused terror floods his veins as he tries to make sense of it all. "Sherlock?" His voice is low and husky. "Sherlock, no it can't be. I'm hallucinating. Sherlock, you're dead; you died! I saw it. This," he gestures wildly to the ground beneath them, "this is your grave!"

Meanwhile, Sherlock has stood up and stands sadly in front of him, hand gingerly touching his face. "No, John. I'm not dead. I faked it. I had to protect you."

"Protect me? Protect me from what?" Angry tears slide down John's face, but he doesn't seem to notice their existence.

Sherlock steps closer, and is relieved when John doesn't retreat any more. "Moriarty. He was behind all of those snipers, John. He wanted to destroy me, to make everyone believe I was a fake with no way to come back from such a lie. He threatened your life, John. I had no other choice. I had to make you believe that I had died. Otherwise, he would have killed you." Sherlock's voice breaks on the last statement, and he gasps for air. Since when had he become a crying man?

John lowers his gaze to his shoes. He fights against the hot tears that wet his face. He sniffs and looks back up. "How did you do it?"

Sherlock grins; obviously he had been waiting to brag. "It was quite simple, really. Moriarty had been dropping clues all along about what was going to happen. I was ahead the entire time, and when he allowed me to actually _choose_ the place, well, it couldn't have been easier. I went to Molly for assistance, and she got me a body. A dead body which she affixed with a mask of my face. This was waiting on one of the benches outside St. Bart's along with some blood, ready to be spilled around the body. Then there was the truck. It was filled with bags to soften my fall. _This_, John, is where I landed. The truck caught me and allowed for my getaway. That's how I survived. But, there was the matter of you believing it all. You couldn't see any of the behind the scenes stunts. So I strategically placed a building between you and my landing place. Remember, John? I told you to go back, back behind the building. Twice, actually. I left you my 'note', and you saw me fall. You didn't see me land, though. And then, I had to make sure you didn't walk in on the placing of the body or realize that it wasn't actually me. You're a clever man, John, you would have figured it out. So I sent the bicyclist to knock you down. Once you were good and confused, you finally rounded the building to see the body and even got to check for a pulse that wasn't there. But I had to go one step further. Those doctors and nurses were in on the act, too. They held you back to make sure you wouldn't be allowed a proper examination. The body was removed, you believed in my death, and you were safe." Sherlock smiles again. "Simple."

John is stunned into silence before he gazes into the eyes he had so craved to see again. "But why now? Why did you have to wait so long to come back?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock apologizes as his grin fades. "I wanted to so many times. I had to make sure the snipers were gone, though. I had to make sure they would leave you alone once I returned."

John suddenly frowns. "Then… Who…?"

Sherlock chuckles lightly. "It's an empty grave, John. Mycroft took care of that."

"Blood hell, of course Mycroft was in on this." Then he can't help it anymore. He reaches out and grabs Sherlock's arms, runs his hands over the slender figure beneath that signature coat. He needs to believe, to know that this is real, that Sherlock is really standing with him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, isn't so thrilled at the intimacy. "What are you doing?"

John lifts his gaze back to his eyes. "I missed you."

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes as John pulls him into a hug. He wraps his arms grudgingly around the shorter man. "I thought you were worried about people talking," he mutters.

"My best friend just came back from the dead," John answers into his coat. "Let them talk."

Sherlock chuckles. "Come on, let's go home. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will be thrilled to see me again; she might even let it go if I stick another head in the fridge."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock and John walk into their flat, sniggering like old times. John closes and locks the door behind them as Sherlock hangs up his coat. The detective gazes around. "Nothing's changed," he remarks in content.

"It wouldn't have felt right if it had," John answers. "Tea?"

"I'll take a coffee, actually." Itching to see what state it is in, Sherlock starts up the stairs toward his bedroom.

John freezes. "Wait, Sherlock! There's something I forgot to tell you!"

But it's too late. The taller man has already opened the door and stepped inside. His gaze immediately travels to the bed and halts on it when he sees that it is occupied. Sherlock's eyebrows come together and his head tilts to the side in sudden interest. He releases his grip on the handle and steps fully into the room; he quietly circles the bed to get a look at his replacement's face, as her back is turned to the door. With quick deduction skills he finds all he needs to know.

The girl's hair is long and blonde, much like the color of John's. Her face also has much of the same features, meaning they are probably related. He decides that she must be a niece; she is the right age: 14 or 15. A box of tissues has been tossed carelessly beside her, and used ones scatter the sheets. The way her chest rises and falls in painful, labored way alerts him to an upper respiratory infection. Not only that, but the way the blankets are binding her so tightly, the slight shiver that wracks her body and the slight shimmer of sweat on her forehead tells him of a fever. Her face is also pale and gaunt, as though she hasn't eaten in the longest time, probably from nausea. It's the flu. But that's not the only reason for the tissues. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying, she is here because of some traumatic event. He glances quickly down to note the presence of empty suitcases, meaning she has moved in. A parent death. No, that can't be all. She is curled in on herself in such a defeated fetal position, her fists are clenched and, even in sleep, her face is alert and ready to react. Abuse.

"Sherlock!" John hisses from the door. The deduction process had occurred in a mere few seconds, just long enough for John to limp after him. "Let her sleep, come on."

"Your sister's?" Sherlock murmurs, ignoring him and continuing to gaze at the girl before him. He goes back to his mind-palace, searching for more truth about her.

"Sherlock, please."

"I asked you a question."

John sighs. He decides that the sooner he fills his friend's request, the sooner he can get him out of there. "Yes; Harriet died about two months ago. The father didn't take it very well; as I'm sure you've already deduced. He lashed out."

"What's she doing in my bed?"

"It's not your bed anymore, it's hers. She's ill, Sherlock, leave her to rest."

"This is my bedroom." He gestures to the space around him.

"You were dead, Sherlock. Did you expect me to leave it for your ghost to come snuggle? Maybe build a shrine in the closet?"

"I have to admit, that would have been nice."

John sighs and trots into the room, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and dragging him. "Can we talk about this somewhere else?" he hisses through gritted teeth. "She's sleeping."

"Sleeping in _my bed._"

"Oh, stop being a child!" John groans softly. "You can have the couch until we figure something out."

"That lumpy old thing?" Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust.

"Then we can share my bed! I really don't want to discuss-"

"John?" A weak voice sounds from the bed. "John."

The shorter man gives his friend a dirty look and leaves him in the doorway to hurry back around to the other side of the bed. He sits beside her on the mattress and goes into doctor-mode.

"How are you feeling?" he murmurs as he gently places the back of his hand on her sweaty forehead. He frowns at how hot she is.

"Not much better," the girl admits.

John nods. "You feel warmer, which isn't good. How's your stomach? Are you hungry?"

His niece shakes her head. John isn't happy with that response, and he leans in closer. His voice is lowered in both volume and pitch, which makes the on looking Sherlock even more curious.

"You haven't eaten a decent meal in over four days now, Alex." Sherlock locks that name in his mind. John continues, ignoring the detective. "You need to at least try. If you're going to go through with this, you need to think about what's best." Sherlock gazes in awe, although it doesn't show on his handsome features, as John grasps her hand and glances subconsciously at Alex's stomach. There's an emotion, hidden carelessly in his eyes; empathy. Love. Concern, and not just for his niece.

"Oh, God," Sherlock groans from the doorway. "Honestly, this has to be a joke; punishment for my actions. Well done, Dr. Watson."

John shoots his friend a death-glare as Alex slowly rolls onto her back to get a look at Sherlock. This is the first she's noticed of his presence. "Sherlock, get out." John's voice is icy and oozes fury. He looks down at Alex, who is gazing at him in tired confusion. His hard expression melts to one of comfort. "Will you excuse me for a moment? I'll be right back with some tea and toast."

John pats her hand before standing and herding Sherlock out with a glower that could move mountains. "What the hell was that about?" John growls once the door is closed and they are in the living room. Thinking but otherwise unphased by John's distemper, Sherlock paces before him. "How could you be so apathetic?"

"She replaced me," Sherlock replies emotionlessly. "_You_ replaced me. With a pregnant, depressed, suicidal teenager who you hardly know!"

"I did not replace you, Sherlock. And she needed me; I'm family. What was I supposed to do?"

Sherlock throws his hands in the air. He doesn't look at his friend, just continues his pacing at a faster rate. John is shocked, he's never seen Sherlock act this way.

"What happened to you, Sherlock?" John murmurs.

The detective whirls on him. His eyes are wild with pain and his nostrils flare. "What do you think happened to me?" he cries. "I was dead, John! I was in hiding, dodging and chasing snipers so you wouldn't get hurt! They would've killed you, John! To have to wait each week, wondering if you were going to show up at that bloody cemetery in one piece, and when you didn't come having to deal with the trauma of questioning if I had failed after all; it was maddening. I was terrified and alone for _six months! _And you're wondering what _happened_ to me?"

John is taken aback. He stands in stunned silence as Sherlock resumes his pacing. "Sherlock, I…"

"No, John," he interrupts. "Just forget it. Forget I said anything."

John watches him for a moment. He mutters something about putting the kettle on and hustles off to the kitchen. Sherlock hardly hears him; he has locked himself back up in his mind-palace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:**

I keep forgetting to add these. Oh well.

Thanks to all my readers who have favorited, added to alerts, and reviewed this story! It means a lot, especially since this is my first real attempt at a fanfic. And with that being said, reviews are greatly appreciated and encouraged! I'm always looking for feedback to become a better writer and to improve my style. So just click that gorgeous blue button and type up something quick! Thanks again!

* * *

The next few minutes pass in silence, and eventually Sherlock settles for lying on the couch, just like old times, long white fingers steepled on his chest. His gray eyes slide shut and he gives a gentle sigh as he relaxes into the cushions.

The detective may be at ease, but John is still fuming slightly. He busies himself with preparing toast on a tray to take to Alex. He knows she'll probably just nibble at it until it threatens to come back up, but he needs to try. John sighs to himself. He knows that if this progresses any further, he'll have no choice but to admit her to St. Bart's. He'd probably be able to take her on as his own patient, but until it is absolutely necessary, he knows that she'll be more comfortable in the flat.

Just as he pours the tea into a small mug and prepares to bring it into the bedroom, Sherlock's voice reaches him from the couch. "What's her story?"

John halts. "Sorry?"

"You heard me; don't make me repeat myself like an imbecile."

"I'm sure you've already figured it out for yourself."

"Yes, but I need to fill in some gaps. When did she conceive?"

"Sherlock!"

"John."

"A month ago." It isn't John who answers. Both men turn to see Alex leaning heavily on the doorframe. She had joined the two men silently, without either of them noticing, and is now staring straight at Sherlock. Her chest heaves with short, ragged breaths that deliver almost no oxygen to her lungs. "I moved in with John a week later."

Intense interest sparkles in Sherlock's eyes as he sits up, hands folded neatly in his lap. "Go on."

Alex's blue eyes are heavy with emotion that Sherlock takes in hungrily; despair, pain, dismay, depression, abandonment, fear, and the one he finds most peculiar of all: trust. Her voice is level, though, and doesn't allow any of these feeling to show through. "What do you want to know? I can't be that hard to figure out."

John has been slowly moving closer to the girl. He watches her in absolute amazement as she allows herself to be picked apart by the detective. He does nothing to intervene, though. This is a new side to Alex that he hasn't been shown before, and he wonders where exactly this conversation will take the two of them.

Sherlock smirks and tilts his head to the side a little, like a puppy examining a new toy before pouncing. "Let me tell you what I know already," he advances slowly. He draws a quick breath before his words start to jumble together in a long-winded speech. "You're depressed. You have been for a long time, not just since the death of your mother and the abuse. You have long, parallel scars on your wrist; they aren't fresh, though. They're old, faded. You haven't cut for a long time, which indicates progress in that area, at least. Progress takes time, and from my observations I can see that those scars are at least three months old, but no later than six. Unless you have scars other places, that was the last time you self-injured. You found a new method; suicide. The marks on your neck indicate that you attempted to take your own life recently by strangling. No, they're high and angled; hanging is more like it. Yes, they could be old wounds from being abused, but they're much too visible and the wrong color for that. Rope burns. That, and the fact that you have no less than four books on suicide and SI in your otherwise empty suitcase. You want them to be hidden from wandering eyes, yet close at hand should the urges resurface. You are on the mend, seeing a new therapist here in London, but not in a hospital. The thoughts have subsided, or else John would have you in a psychiatric ward right now. But, you've already been there. That's why you're sleeping in my bed; you're frighteningly ill yet a _doctor_ of all people has decided to keep you at home. Why? You've just gotten out of there, no doubt because of a traumatizing experience to add to the list. It didn't help, something happened there. Something that would make you lose faith in the hospital. They didn't give up on you, no, that would be too subtle. And John didn't spring you either. You were approached, attacked actually. Not verbally or just physically, sexually. You were a rape victim, again. They didn't succeed; you were saved just in time. If you hadn't, I'd be seeing a much different girl before me. You don't want to go back there; the memories are too fresh in your mind. So John takes care of you in your illness instead of seeking outside assistance. I could go on and on, but now, here is my question to you, Alex; why on earth are you looking at me like that?"

Unlike the shocked and broken expression most people would normally have on their faces right now, Alex is merely smiling at the detective. John gazes at her as well as Sherlock, both men waiting for her to shatter. But, she does something that neither of them would expect. She laughs.

"Astounding. You're good," she says, pushing away from the frame. She staggers closer to him as she crosses her arms. "That was truly brilliant."

Despite himself, Sherlock grins back at her. John shakes himself mentally. Alex may not be shell-shocked, but he sure is. And he hadn't even been the victim of that little mind game. He turns his attention back to the tray, waiting to be delivered into Alex's lap.

"John." Sherlock's urgent voice draws his attention back.

"What, Sherlock? Is it my turn to be manipulated?" The doctor twists to look at him.

"Go to Alex. Now." His body is rigid, alert.

"What?" John looks on in confusion, and his eyes light on his niece.

"She's going to faint. Hurry. Catch her." Sherlock jumps up from the couch.

John doesn't hesitate and runs to Alex. He reaches her just as she murmurs something about being fine and her knees buckle. He catches her swiftly in his arms and immediately carries her limp form to the recently vacated couch. Sherlock helps to straighten out her limbs and elevates her ankles with a pillow to get the blood flowing back to her heart. John worriedly checks her pulse; it is weak and irregular but there.

"You pushed her too hard," John mutters to the detective as he checks her other vitals. She is still burning up, which alarms him.

"This has nothing to do with my deductions. She had been standing too much and you said so yourself; she hasn't eaten in over four days." Sherlock leaves to fetch the tray and sets it on the table when he returns. He is also holding a white washcloth, which John takes. It is damp with cold water, and John lays it gently across her forehead.

"You've got to stop doing that to people," John mutters as he watches Alex's pale face. Then, louder; "Alex? Can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?" He takes hers in his. "Alex? Open your eyes and look at me."

No response. John anxiously checks her pulse again. It is the same.

He gently pats her cheek a few times, causing her head to roll softly from side to side. "Alex? Open your eyes, sweetheart. Alex!" John stares at her blank face. _"Dammit." _He glances at Sherlock, whose face is crinkled in concern. Wait - Sherlock Holmes is worried? "ALEX!"

A soft groan sounds from her chest and she pinches her eyes closed tighter. Her mouth opens to let out a painful sigh, and her blue eyes flicker open. Had there been any blood in her cheeks, she would have blushed at the anxious faces that greet her. "What happened?"

"You fainted," John answers as he offers her a glass of water, provided by Sherlock. "How do you feel?"

She winces as her head spins when she sits up to drink. "Like crap, how else?"

Sherlock sniggers lightly behind John, but he ignores him. "Stop being such a mother hen, John," the detective says. "She'll be alright after she's eaten and had some rest."

John frowns slightly but lays the tray across Alex's lap. He doesn't leave her side as she eats. Meanwhile, Sherlock has grown bored and leaves the girl's side. He goes to the window, where his violin sits exactly where he had left it all those months ago. Oh, how he had missed its beautiful sound. His touch as gentle as a lover's, Sherlock removes the instrument from its dusty case and slowly runs the bow across the strings to produce a melancholy chord. _'Just as I remember you.'_


	4. Chapter 4

Later that night, John helps Alex become situated in bed while Sherlock gets ready to sleep in John's room. In John's bed. With John. _'God, this will be interesting,'_ Sherlock thinks to himself. Once he is changed into his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, he stands at the foot of the neatly made bed. The detective wonders which side to take, but it doesn't take long for him to figure it out. With John's old injuries, he'll most likely sleep on his right side to keep pressure off of his bad shoulder. And with that in mind, he knows that John probably won't want to wake up facing him in the morning, so Sherlock lies on the left side and waits for John to return. It takes the doctor a while.

Sherlock his resting on his back with his eyes closed and hands folded on his chest when he hears the door softly open and close. The tired footsteps of John Watson shuffle to the bathroom, and soon Sherlock can hear only the sounds of John preparing for bed. A few minutes later the bathroom door opens and the right side of the bed sags. There is the fumbling of blankets beside him as John gets comfortable. It is then that Sherlock opens his eyes and turns to his flatmate.

"How is she?" he mumbles.

John pivots his head to look at the detective. He studies his face for a minute. "That's funny; I don't remember you being the caring type of fellow."

"I care about you, and you care about her. Isn't that enough?"

John's frown deepens at that. Sherlock just said he cares about him. He pushes this confession to the back of his mind. "I thought you were angry at me. I replaced you."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment. "She's different than I thought she would be." His voice is soft and resigned, something John isn't used to.

"Yes," John smiles and looks up at the ceiling. "She's a fighter. She's a lot like you, you know. She's brilliant, but with a softer side."

"She's me and you rolled up into one broken mess." Sherlock sighs. "God, I pity the poor soul."

John chuckles and rolls onto his side. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John."

* * *

John awakes with a start, and his eyes search the room wildly. He rolls onto his back with a groan to see Sherlock is also awake. The consulting detective is sitting up, back rigid and eyes alert, staring. John props himself onto his elbows; his groggy mind fights to figure out what had woken them.

Then he hears it; a blood curdling scream that comes from Sherlock's old room and chills John to his bones. The two men stare at each other. "Alex," Sherlock whispers. But John has already flown from the room. The detective follows hastily, albeit with significantly less concern.

John explodes into the bedroom to see Alex thrashing about on the bed, blanket twisted around her legs and hands clawing wildly at the air. She is in the middle of a horrific nightmare. "No, no, no. NO! GET AWAY FROM ME! No! Stop it! Help, somebody help me!"

Alex screams again as John leaps onto the bed and gathers his niece in his arms, holding her tightly. "NO!" She scratches at his face, and her eyes snap open. Terrified blue irises light on John, who is whispering softly to her.

"It's alright, Alex. It's me, John. You're safe." He gently lifts a hand to brush the hair out of her face. "It's over. I'm here."

Heart beating madly like a frightened animal, Alex fights to gain control of her erratic breathing as recognition sweeps over her. It's John. Tears flood her eyes, and she suddenly feels herself break in his arms. She buries her face in his chest and sobs.

"It was _him,_ John," she weeps. "Both of them. They were attacking me, and… Oh God!" Alex can't finish as another heart-wrenching sob takes hold of her.

John has tears in his own eyes as he soothingly rubs her back. "I'm so sorry. I never should have sent you there. I'm sorry." He takes a shaky breath; he can sense Sherlock hovering behind him in the doorway. "Sherlock, will you make some tea? It'll help calm her down." There is a whisper of fabric as the detective leaves.

It is quiet for a few minutes, apart from the sounds of Alex trying to regain composure. When she speaks she sounds a little better. "I love you, John," she murmurs.

John feels his heart break. Fresh tears slide down his cheeks. He buries his lips in her soft hair as he kisses the top of her head. "I love you, too. Don't you ever forget that. I'm here for you."

Alex only nods. John feels his shirt become even wetter. He sighs and pats her back as the sound of the whistling kettle reaches them. "Come on, let's go to the couch. Some warm tea will make you feel better." She sniffs and pulls away slightly, swiping at her eyes.

When John and Alex enter the living area, Sherlock is sitting in his usual black armchair with three mugs of tea in front of him. John helps Alex walk across the room to sit on the sofa. John takes his place beside her, and she curls up against him, closing her eyes and sipping at her tea. He wraps his left arm around her and takes his own cup.

Sherlock chuckles lightly. "You've gone soft, John. I'm surprised."

John shoots him a look. "I see you're back to yourself."

"One can only play concerned uncle for so long, John." He looks at Alex emotionlessly.

"No, Sherlock, that's only you. And since when have you been her uncle too?"

Sherlock's eyes feign pain. "Why, John, I'm hurt. I thought we had something special."

"Obviously not," Alex giggles from John's shoulder. Her eyes are soft as she looks at him.

"What are you laughing at?" Sherlock spits, although his gray eyes betray him with an emotion John can't quite place.

John can't help but smile. He rubs Alex's shoulder and arches his neck a little to look down at her. "Feeling any better?"

She nods and closes her eyes, although Sherlock can clearly see the pain still written there. Her exhaustion must outweigh the turmoil, though, because her breathing has soon deepened and her full weight slumps against John.

John sighs. "Help me get her to bed?"

Sherlock's nose crinkles and his bottom lip curls up slightly.

"Thought not." The doctor gently scoops the girl up in his arms and stands, wincing minutely as a ghost of pain twinges at his shoulder. His friend misses nothing though, and is at his side in an instant.

"Let me take her. You go fix her bed."

Sherlock may be thin, but he is strong. John passes Alex off gratefully, and the consulting detective (I invented the job, mind you) has no trouble supporting her weight. She hangs lifelessly in his arms and moves her head to rest it on his shoulder in her sleep. Sherlock exhales heavily and rolls his eyes but does nothing against the action.

"Only because John likes you," Sherlock mutters as he carries Alex swiftly after her uncle.

* * *

Review Please!


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**

I've been waiting to post this chapter; I like it. I hope you like it too, and if you do please let me know in a review! Any type of feedback is adored, whether it be constructive or positive. I love anyone and everyone who reviews! Who knows, I might just start taking suggestions from you guys. *hint, hint* :)

But now here's the bad part. I'm going to be away this next week, and won't be able to post new chapters until at least Friday. Sorry! This could be the last update for a week, but I might post one tomorrow. Maybe.

Well, I'll shut up now. Here's chapter five! Enjoy!

* * *

Alex awakes the next morning with a pounding in her head and a feeling as if a rock has settled in her stomach and rolls around whenever she moves. She groans softly and covers her face with one of the spare pillows. Her knees come up to her chest as she curls into a tight ball. She reaches a hand under the pillow she uses to block out the light and rubs at her temples. The throbbing isn't abated, no matter how much pressure she applies to the arteries. A small whimper escapes her lips.

There is a soft knock at the door. Alex scrunches her face up in frustration but removes the pillow and mumbles something unintelligible. The door opens and catlike footsteps approach and go around the bed, as she is facing away from the door again. The footsteps aren't John's.

Alex's eyes snap open to see Sherlock sit beside her hip on the mattress. He looks slightly awkward, obviously not used to caring. Alex would have smirked, had she not been fighting a migraine.

"Here," Sherlock holds out his open palm with some painkillers.

Alex accepts them gratefully along with the glass of water in his other hand. He takes the empty cup and sets it on the bedside table as Alex closes her eyes and leans back against the soft pillows. Hating the feeling of being weak and helpless but desperately needing relief, Alex grudgingly decides to make her request heard. "Would you close the blinds and draw the curtains for me?" she whispers. God, she sounds pathetic.

Sherlock does so quietly, questioning why he isn't making some snide remark instead. _'Because she's different,' _he thinks angrily. _'She's not like the others. Remember Irene?'_ And he does remember Irene, how she had baffled and understood him just like Alex does now. But even that had been different. Why? Even Sherlock can't find an answer to that. He's still trying to figure her out.

Sherlock makes to leave, but the teenager's voice calls him back. "Where's John?"

Sherlock pauses, looking down at the blue eyes that squint painfully up at him. He sits back on the bed, in the same spot. "He went to the store and gave me instructions to take care of you while he's gone. It shouldn't be much longer, though; it's been almost an hour."

Alex nods and closes her eyes again. Time to rebuild her armor. "You won't leave."

Sherlock is taken aback. He can't help the smile that creeps onto his face. Her words had been said as a knowing statement, as though she were telling him something as obvious as the fact that John will return with milk and jam. And she's right; Sherlock won't leave. He is genuinely intrigued by Alex, just as much as he is intrigued by his cases. He wants to learn her story inside and out, to figure out what keeps drawing him back to her. Sherlock suddenly stops his thoughts, realizing what he's doing. He's getting involved. But to get involved, he has to help. He has to care. The detective laughs quietly to himself; he's turning into John.

"What's funny?"

Sherlock looks down at Alex, who is watching him with much less pain in her eyes. The medicine is starting to take effect. He shakes his head by way of answer. "Nothing."

Alex studies him for a moment. A frown forms on her lips. "You were John's flatmate, the one who died." She is talking mostly to herself, although her eyes don't leave Sherlock's. "You were the brilliant detective who killed himself." Her brows knit together, deep in thought.

Sherlock nods. Where is this going? What is she thinking?

"But," she continues, "You didn't die. You faked it. I heard you and John talking. It was to protect him, wasn't it?"

Again, Sherlock can only nod.

"Why?" The word is barely more than a breath as she says it. "Someone was after you, weren't they? They wanted you dead, and they threatened John's life. So you faked it."

Sherlock suddenly breaks out into a grin. "It seems I've underestimated you. Well done."

But Alex isn't smiling back. Sherlock can see she's done playing. "You hurt him."

He looks down at his hands as they fidget with the blanket. "I know."

"I don't think you do." Her voice is suddenly hard with emotion. "I didn't know him very well before… it… happened to me." She takes a breath to steady herself. "But, I still knew him. Before and after he lost you. It changed him; he wasn't the same John. He was… broken. He tried to hide it when I came into his life, but I could see it. He was in agony. Every day. Because of what you did to him. He would lie awake at night, just crying. Sobbing, actually. And calling your name, asking why. I would just stand outside his door, powerless to do anything, because he didn't want me to know how badly he was hurting. He wanted to be strong for me, so I didn't let him on. I couldn't help him, Sherlock. Nobody could. Nobody… but you."

Sherlock finally looks up again, meets her eyes. They aren't stony like her voice; they're miserable. Tears threaten to spill over, and before he realizes what he's doing, Sherlock reaches out with a pale finger to wipe them away.

Alex's hand darts up to grab his as it starts to pull away from her face. Sherlock sits stunned, trying to decipher the message in her eyes. But, before he can, she releases him and lies back down. Her eyes slide closed, shutting him out.

The detective takes a breath to calm his nerves. "I'll get you something to eat," he says, standing. He goes to the door, where he pauses, hand resting lightly on the handle. "I'm sorry."

Alex turns her head to look at him. "I'm not the person you should be saying that to."

Sherlock gives a half smile, and then he's gone.


	6. Chapter 6

"Have a seat, Alex. Dr. Watson. Tell me how you've been."

Alex sits on the dark purple couch in Dr. Mortimer's small office. John settles down beside her and takes her hand gently. It is a force of habit, and he doesn't realize he has done it at first. She doesn't object or pull away, though. She is still getting comfortable with this new therapist, and it is comforting to have someone close to hold onto.

"Alright, I guess," Alex answers softly.

Dr. Mortimer gives her a look. "Now tell me the truth. How have the thoughts been?"

John gives her hand a light squeeze. Alex looks at the floor. "Not much better."

"And have you acted on them at all?"

She shakes her head.

She can sense Dr. Mortimer's concerned smile. "That's good, Alex. That's very good. How does that make you feel?"

'_And here we go, into all of the touchy-feely shit.'_ Alex shrugs and meets her gaze again. "Good."

Dr. Mortimer nods. "It should. It's a huge accomplishment."

Alex smiles. Just go along with it, make her happy. It's so easy to ensure others' happiness, to make them feel good and needed and special. But when it comes to her own wellbeing, Alex finds herself at a loss. She just can't bring herself to get help.

"How have you been sleeping?"

"Not very well," Alex admits. This is one of the only areas she feels even slightly comfortable discussing.

"And why is that?" Dr. Mortimer looks genuinely interested, but Alex can't help but feel it is all a façade. A professional mask used to get her money.

"Nightmares."

"About what?"

And this is where Alex falters again. She looks to John for help, for him to speak now, but he only squeezes her hand and smiles encouragingly. Alex bites her lip and feels rebellious tears sting her eyes. "The attacks."

Dr. Mortimer nods again and leans forward in her chair. "When was the last time you had one of these nightmares?"

Alex takes a breath, steeling herself. She tightens her grip on John. "Last night."

"I see." Dr. Mortimer reaches up and removes her reading glasses. She sets the notebook in her lap and fiddles with her pen in her fingers. "Will you do something with me, Alex? An exercise?"

Knowing that she'll be forced to anyway, Ales nods curtly.

"Are you comfortable sitting like that? Do you feel okay with John in here, or do you want him to leave?"

Alex's breath hitches in her throat. No. She's kicking John out. Her fingers constrict him and cut off the blood flow to his hand.

John shakes his head. "I can stay." She relaxes slightly.

Dr. Mortimer gives a small smile. "Alright. Alex, I want you to close your eyes. Just relax."

After a moment's hesitation, she obeys.

"Good," the psychiatrist continues after a second. "Get comfortable; clear your mind."

Alex tries, but her heart is pounding too wildly. She knows where this is going, and she doesn't like it. Her breathing is fast and shallow, and she gulps. In. Out. In. Hold. Out. Hold. In. In. In. Hold. Out. She can't seem to gain control, and she feels tears prick at her eyes. _'What the hell are you doing? Crying? You're so stupid and weak. No wonder your mother abandoned you. You deserved what happened to you. You deserved it.'_ Alex wants to slap herself. Is she seriously having a panic attack?

"Alex?" John's worried voice reaches her. She feels her blood boiling with embarrassment and anger. "We can reschedule if you need to."

"No." Alex's voice is firm.

It's quiet for a moment. Then Dr. Mortimer cuts in with her calm, professional voice that sets Alex's teeth on edge. "Tell me about the dream, Alex. Tell me what you see."

Alex squeezes her eyes tight. Although she had been drugged up nicely before leaving to subdue her symptoms, she can feel the pounding in her head returning. But she has to do this; she has to get it out. She takes a deep breath. _'Here we go.'_ And she talks. For the first time in a month, she opens up. Her death grip remains on John, strangling his fingers, but he doesn't mind and grips back just as hard, never letting go.

She launches into her story. Her voice is level and aimed at the therapist, but she can only picture her uncle in her mind. _'Just talk to John. You trust him.'_

"The dreams, they're nothing more than memories. I find myself reliving those two events, with no power to control what is happening. First, I see my dad on the couch; he's drunk and angry. He shouts at me, blames me for her death. He hits me. And then I'm on the floor, and he's coming closer…"

* * *

An hour later, the session is up and John returns to the flat with Alex. She is shaken badly, but feels much better. It had felt nice to finally talk about the tragedies, although it had taken its toll on her. She is exhausted and collapses into bed as soon as she can. She drifts off into a dreamless slumber, the sound of music drifting up from downstairs.

Meanwhile, John plops down in his armchair with the newspaper. Sherlock stands at the window, thrashing wildly at the strings of his violin. An angry, exhilarated song pours from that brilliant mind, and he pauses every once in a while to jot down his ideas on the paper in front of him.

John shakes his head and turns the page, scanning the headlines for something interesting. "I know you're on a new case, but could you please think a little quieter?"

Sherlock halts in the middle of a screeching yet controlled chord and picks up his pencil. "Quiet is boring; excitement is stimulating. I need to think, and some calm ballet is going to help." He takes up his bow again and faces the window. John can just imagine his eyes sliding shut in content as he goes into a long, thrilling run.

The doctor rustles the papers again and scans an article about a business chain closing. He doesn't absorb any of the information, though. He can't get his mind off of the session with Alex. John hadn't said more than two sentences, just sat and provided moral support for Alex. Yet, the teenager's painful confessions had left him shocked. In a vain attempt at distraction, he turns his thoughts to Sherlock's return.

The consulting detective hadn't wasted any time in returning to solving crimes. Lestrade and the rest of the guys had welcomed him back happily while Alex and John had gone to see Dr. Mortimer. And after all of the useless pleasantries were through with, Sherlock had gone straight to the point and nearly choked a murder case out of the police. It must have been a good, tough one, with the way it has Sherlock acting.

John smiles as the violin suddenly goes into a more peaceful melody, still agitated, but comforting at the same time. Sherlock must have reached some sort of epiphany. The music stops for a moment, and there is the sound of a pencil scribbling furiously.

Silence.

And then it's back into a furious fight for control between the musician and the instrument.

John sighs. It'll be a long night.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So I managed to squeeze in another chapter before I left. I won't be able to post any more until at least Friday or Saturday. I hope you like it; I'm adding in a case! Yay!

And don't forget to leave a review; I love constructive criticism! Anything to help me become a better writer and to know what I'm doing right!


	7. Chapter 7

Mrs. Hudson returns the next afternoon to a smiling John and a subtly bright-eyed detective. Sherlock will never admit his true happiness at his landlady's return out loud for fear of further revealing his emotional side. His quickly dwindling wall of sarcasm and apathy is vanishing far too rapidly, and he decides that he has to be more careful. John has started to look at him differently; Sherlock can see it written as plain as day in the doctor's face at the kitchen table. Of course, Sherlock is only there to read the newspaper, as boring and repetitive as the articles are, as John and Alex actually eat. Yet, between bites, Sherlock can see John looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He's waiting for the consulting detective to slip again, to care.

During one of these glances, Sherlock lowers the paper and clears his throat. He gazes stony faced at John, who looks back in confusion at the detective's actions. Alex slowly places her fork down to watch silently. She has quickly learned in the past few days that conversations between the two men can become extraordinarily interesting.

"Honestly John, didn't your mother ever teach you not to stare?" Sherlock returns to the paper, feigning curiosity in one of the dull stories.

"Funny. You never seem to think twice when you do it." John stabs his lunch with his fork and sips some coffee.

"I do not stare," Sherlock defends in an even tone, "I observe."

John sighs. "Alright, Mr. Observer. What are you reading anyway? Isn't that yesterday's paper?"

"Mm, yes." Sherlock flips the page. A bored expression has settled on his face, and his eyes scan tiredly from under his dark curls. He is silent for a moment before he throws the paper down in frustration and shoots to his feet. He rushes across the kitchen. "We need to go back."

John watches him as a growing concern aches in his abdomen. "Back where, exactly?"

"The crime scene!" Sherlock calls from the next room.

"I thought you said you solved it this morning?"

"I need to see it again!"

John turns his gaze to Alex, who is watching in fascination. He sighs. "You mean now?"

"Of course I mean now!" Sherlock hurries back into the kitchen. He has donned his coat and is adjusting his navy blue scarf. "Hurry, John, or we'll have to share with Anderson." His lip curls at the idea. "Come, don't dawdle!"

John sets his meal aside as Sherlock flies from the room once more. "You'll be alright if I go?" He addresses Alex. "Mrs. Hudson is down in the café if you need anything. I can send her up when we go."

Alex nods. "I was going to go rest anyway. I'll be fine."

John frowns but dips his head. He doesn't like the idea of leaving her while she isn't feeling well, but decides that Mrs. Hudson is more than capable. He pats her knee before standing. "Alright. Call if anything happens."

Alex smiles. "Go, before you lose him."

John chuckles. "I'll have my cell."

* * *

Sherlock circles the hotel room slowly. The body has been long since removed, but an outline in tape remains and the scene is otherwise unchanged. John watches in silence as his friend goes back over every detail and deduces everything that had occurred the day before. Something isn't right, though; something _is_ different. He suddenly stops and whirls on the ex-army doctor. "The newspaper, John, where is it?"

John tilts his head to the side. "Newspaper?"

Sherlock scoffs impatiently. "Yes, the one that was on the nightstand. It was open to the business section, but now it's gone."

John follows his gaze to the apparently now-empty bedside table. "I don't know. I didn't notice it before."

"Of course you didn't; nobody did." Sherlock starts pacing. "So unobservant; all of you."

John ignores this comment. "Do you think it was important? Is that why you were reading it this morning? What does it mean?"

"You ask far too many questions, John," Sherlock mutters. "And yes, I do think it is important. I know it is. The victim, Paul Sutter, was a very successful businessman. Very wealthy. Whoever did this was jealous and wanted his money. So much that they decided to kill him."

John shakes his head. "Wait. That doesn't make sense. You said this morning that it was a suicide."

Sherlock growls harshly. "Of course it was a suicide, John. The evidence is right in front of you. I'm talking about the reason behind the suicide."

"You mean someone put him up to it. An assisted suicide?"

"Almost," Sherlock answers. "More like they convinced him to do it." He points to the bare nightstand. "With a fake newspaper. At least, the business section was fake. It held ill news for Paul's area of expertise; news that destroyed him. The paper of the document that was present yesterday was well-worn and crumpled, as if he had been kneading it in anxiety. Whatever he had read was enough for him to think that there would be no way to return to success. It seemed that all of his life's work had gone down the drain, so he decided to stop trying. He took his own life for fear of facing his failure. And once the deed had been done and we all cleared out, the culprit returned to remove the evidence."

John frowns. "I don't understand one thing. They didn't steal any money, and the family hasn't reported any missing. Why did they kill him instead of going for what they wanted?"

Sherlock grins. "Because, John, stealing isn't necessary when you're the heir."

John stares at him for a long minute. Then, slowly, he starts to laugh. "Of course. It's the son."

"Precisely." At that moment, a cell phone rings. Sherlock impatiently reaches into his pocket and pulls it out. "What?" It is quiet for a second, and John watches as the consulting detective's features slowly fade from an expression of annoyance to one of shock. He silently holds the phone out to John. "It's Alex."

* * *

Alex lays on her side on the sofa, blue eyes closed and knees tucked to her chest. The soft sounds of the television reach her, but she doesn't pay them any attention. Her head is pounding, and her stomach churns painfully. A bin has been placed below her by Mrs. Hudson should the need for it arise, and Alex can't help the feeling that it may very well be called for. She groans and curls in tighter, hating how pathetic she feels.

A soothing hand touches her shoulder. "Alex, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson's hand moves to her forehead, and Alex can't stop the sigh of relief. Her touch is so cool and comforting; she hadn't realized how cold she had gotten or even noticed the shivers that gently shake her body until now.

"Alex, you're burning up." The landlady sounds shocked. "I'm calling John; you need him."

The girl doesn't protest as Mrs. Hudson adjusts the pillows beneath her head and places a blanket over her. A thermometer is slid beneath her tongue, and Alex holds it in place with her teeth. She hears the woman retreat from the room; her urgent voice follows moments later as she explains the situation over the phone.

"Sherlock, is John there? I need you to get him back here; Alex took a turn for the worse." There is a pause. "Oh, John dear, she's not doing so well. I need you to come back at once." Pause. "Headache, fever, upset stomach; the poor darling." Alex hears footsteps approach, and the thermometer is removed. Alex licks her lips but doesn't open her eyes as a wrinkled hand rests on her forehead. "39.7"

Alex feels her heart drop. Is that her temperature? Not good.

"Alright, thank you." Alex feels the hand be removed as Mrs. Hudson leaves. She returns moments later. "John and Sherlock are on their way; they'll take care of you. Drink this."

Alex opens her eyes slightly to see a glass of water in front of her. Mrs. Hudson's face is crumpled in concern, and her kind eyes watch as she sits up slightly to take the glass. The cold water feels wonderful as it goes down her throat. Alex gives it back and closes her eyes once more, willing her head to stop hurting and her stomach to stop wanting to reject the water.

"I'll fetch another blanket, dear." Alex listens as Mrs. Hudson's footsteps retreat down the stairs. She hears the clinking of dishes in the kitchen as she settles things in the sink.

Alex groans softly. Why is she so weak? Why is she so stupid? Why can't she be stronger and take care of herself? John isn't like this. Sherlock isn't like this. They're free, enjoying their lives. Why can't she be like them? Why can't she seem to pick herself up and move on with her life? Why? Why is she so damn pitiful?

A quiet knocking from downstairs interrupts her thoughts. That can't be John already, can it? Did she doze off? Alex listens as Mrs. Hudson approaches the door. There is a pause as she unlocks it and the creak of it opening.

Alex's heart stops and her eyes snap open as a blood curdling scream reaches her a second later.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Sorry it took so long to update, I was travelling and didn't have my laptop. I hope this chapter makes up for the wait, though!


	8. Chapter 8

The cab ride is carried out in a shroud of tense silence. Most of this tension rolls off of John's square shoulders as he stares out the window. He leans forward ever so slightly in anxiety and clasps his hands tightly in his lap; his troubled thoughts swirl in constant concern around his niece.

Sherlock observes his friend out of the corner of his eye, yet he does nothing to intervene in the doctor's worrying. He can't help but feel that doing so would merely make matters worse. The detective isn't an expert in dealing with the many emotions of others; he tries so hard to suppress those of his own and turn them all to anger in order to be left alone in his confusion. And confused is precisely the reaction he has towards strong emotions; he simply does not know how to confront them. So now in the cab, Sherlock settles for relaxing into the cushions and allowing himself to retreat into his mind palace. He'll leave the worrying to Watson.

"Here you are," the cab driver sings as he pulls over. "221B Baker Street."

The boys exit the vehicle in record speed, and Sherlock makes his way around to join John as he pays and thanks the driver. The shiny black cab putters on down the road, and John follows Sherlock briskly towards the door. The detective fumbles for his keys in his pockets while John bounces on the balls of his feet in anticipation, but his hands suddenly freeze and his head tilts quizzically to the side.

"Sherlock, could you possibly hurry up? I need to get upstairs."

"Something's wrong," Sherlock mutters, straightening up ever so slightly. He reaches out a slender hand to gently touch the dark wood around the handle. The door is slightly ajar, and there are small scratches along the edges that indicate a struggle. "Someone was here. Load your gun; I forgot mine."

Not pausing to wonder how Sherlock had known he had his weapon, John obeys as his days as a soldier and his training kick in. He follows closely when the detective pushes the door open and ventures cautiously inside. They pause to listen, only to be greeted by dead silence. John's gut twists painfully in concern for the two women they had left behind.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock calls warily after a moment, causing the ex-soldier to jump slightly after the tense silence. "Alex?"

"_Sherlock…?" _The voice of their landlady is weak and frightened as it comes from the kitchen.

The men exchange a guarded glance before hustling after the sound. Sherlock enters the room first and scans the area before his eyes light on Mrs. Hudson lying on the floor. John pushes past him to kneel beside her. She is shaking with fear, and a thin trail of blood trickles from under her hairline. John snatches a towel from the nearby counter to gently press against the wound. "What happened? Are you alright?"

Tears spill from her terrified eyes as she meets his gaze. "I'm so sorry, dear, I tried to stop them. They were too strong; I couldn't fight them off. Oh, the poor darling…" Her voice trails off and she buries her face in her hands. Overcome with emotion, John pulls her in close. He hears Sherlock quickly retreat to run up the stairs.

"It's okay, Mrs. Hudson. It's not your fault."

She only shakes her head.

Suddenly, there is a loud crash from upstairs. It sounds as though Sherlock has thrown something. "JOHN!"

John moves to stand and accompany his friend, but a shaking yet firm hand on his shoulder stops him. He looks down to see Mrs. Hudson gazing at him with abject sorrow. "I'm so sorry. It's Alex; she's gone. They took her." And that is the end of what she can take. John only stares in shock at the news as the woman before him breaks down sobbing and gasping for air between the string of apologies that emanate from her mouth.

* * *

A quiet knocking from downstairs interrupts Alex's thoughts. That can't be John already, can it? Did she doze off? Alex listens as Mrs. Hudson approaches the door. There is a pause as she unlocks it and the creak of it opening.

Alex's heart stops and her eyes snap open as a blood curdling scream reaches her a second later.

'_Mrs. Hudson.'_

All of the teenager's pain and exhaustion is forgotten as she rips the blankets off and shoots to her feet. She only makes it a few steps, though, before she stumbles and clutches the black armchair as her vision swims sickeningly on the edge of darkness. Her stomach feels as if it may betray her, and she slams her eyelids closed to fight off the nausea. There is a dull thud from the kitchen, followed by a cry of pain and the authoritative voices of men. It is these sounds that drive Alex onward. She has to help.

Ignoring the waves of sickness that engulf her, Alex staggers toward the stairs and peers down. Her breaths are short and ragged, and her bleary vision is hardly useful at the moment. She may just pass out trying to descend the stairs. _'I have to try, at least.'_

Determined to not let Mrs. Hudson suffer, Alex half walks half trips downstairs. She falls onto the first floor landing – literally falls when her vision goes to black and her hearing vanishes. She regains consciousness the moment she hits the floor, though. "Mrs. Hudson," she hears herself mutter softly.

"Oy, what was that?" A man's voice with a thick cockney accent reaches her, and she hears footsteps approach. A nasally laugh sounds above her; she cries out quietly in pain as a sharp-toed shoe nails her in the ribs. "Jim, I think this is John's girl! The bloke wasn't fibbin'!"

Alex's eyes flutter open to see a pair of legs, clad in dusty blue jeans, looming above her. She gasps and scrambles away on her hands and knees instinctively. Fear claims her senses as the man advances and traps her against the wall; she raises her arms above her head to defend herself.

"Move away, Sebastian."

Alex leans around the man in front of her to identify this new voice. Her eyes find a man with dark, slicked black hair, dressed in a black suit and tie. His hands are folded behind his back, and his head is tilted slightly to the side. Calm, brown eyes study Alex as she stares up at him from the floor. He reminds her of a hunter studying its prey before pouncing and going in for the kill; like a cat toying with a mouse, about to sever the lifeline.

The man, Sebastian, steps away from Alex obediently, yet she does not lower her hands. Her heart pounds like a frightened animal as the man named Jim advances slowly.

"Hello, beautiful," he purrs. His voice is smooth and almost comforting, but Alex is too ill and terrified to fall for it. Her temples scream with every erratic beat of her heart. "Don't worry; I'm not going to hurt you." Jim kneels in front of Alex; his eyes scan her and take in her pale face, tired features, and sweaty pajamas. The back of his hand comes to rest on her forehead, causing her to jump with a quiet shriek. "Shh, it's alright. Not feeling well, are we?" A smile plays on his lips.

Alex doesn't know what to do. This is so strange; she just knows that she has to get away from him. He's lying; he hurt Mrs. Hudson. _Mrs. Hudson._ Where is she?

Jim sighs and stands. He snaps his fingers impatiently and motions to Alex. "Take her to the car; she may come in useful later."

Before Alex can react, rough hands grab her and hoist her to her feet. "Come now, love; don't fight. Let's go."

Alex unfreezes, and a terrified scream escapes her mouth before a greasy hand is slapped over it. She continues to struggle and kick as she is dragged away by Sebastian. A sharp blow is delivered to her head, silencing her as she blacks out momentarily and her eyes swim in tears. "There's a good girl," her captor grunts as he swings her legs up to cradle her in his arms. She is suddenly too tired and weak to fight anymore.

"Alex?" Mrs. Hudson's shaky voice reaches her ears, and she rolls her head to see the landlady stumble out of the kitchen. Her eyes are wide with fright, and she holds a hand to her head.

Alex opens her mouth to answer, to tell her to run, but she is shocked into silence when Jim spins on his heels and smashes something – the butt of a gun? – into the side of her head. She falls, and the kidnapper shoves her back into the kitchen. He straightens his suit and rolls his neck as if to fight off a headache. "Let's go."

Sebastian complies, and they come out onto the street. Alex can feel unconsciousness tugging at her limbs as she is lowered, surprisingly with a tender touch, into the back seat of a car. She hears concerned voices outside and Jim's explanation of going to the hospital before the door is closed. She opens her eyes to see Sebastian at the wheel and Jim gazing back at her from the passenger seat. Intense interest sparkles in his eyes. "Don't worry, dear. I'll take good care of you."

And then she can't fight the darkness anymore. The engine roars to life as Alex slides her eyes shut and gives in to sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

John sits with Mrs. Hudson at the kitchen table. She gazes blankly off into space as the doctor works on her. What John had originally thought to be a single head wound had turned out to be several gashes from multiple blows to the head. He can see that she had been quite the fighter against their attackers, and he can't help the smile that creeps onto his mouth as he dips the washcloth in the bowl of water to clean her wounds.

As John assists Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock searches the flat to figure out everything that had occurred. He soon has the full events played out in his mind. The only detail that escapes him is the identity of the two men. And after questioning Mrs. Hudson, he had found that she hadn't known either of them.

The army doctor pauses in his work to pick up a syringe and vile of pain killers. "I'm going to have to stitch some of these bigger cuts," he explains as he draws the correct dosage. "Then we should have you taken to hospital to be checked for concussion. How many times did they hit you again?"

Mrs. Hudson lowers her gaze as John gently injects the contents into her scalp. "I'm not sure. I don't quite remember."

Sherlock growls in anger and protectiveness. He can't stand to know that Mrs. Hudson is in danger. And they hurt John by taking Alex. His Baker Street family is the closest people to his heart, and he doesn't take threats to them lightly. Whoever did this to them is going to pay.

John looks to Sherlock; his eyes are heavy with sadness and pain while the younger man's tell a tale of anger and merciless rage. He rubs Mrs. Hudson's shoulder affectionately before taking up his suture kit. "We'll get this taken care of; don't worry. We'll find her. I won't rest until we do." He works quickly and diligently, and soon he is finished altogether. John stands to take care of the waste.

Sherlock is leaning on the counter as John finishes up. He holds a cup of tea in each hand, and another sits beside him. This one John takes to their landlady. "Drink, it'll help." She accepts it wordlessly. John turns on Sherlock again. "We need to phone Lestrade, tell them what's happened. We should get your brother over here, too, and see if he got anything on the surveillance." He glances at Mrs. Hudson. "Someone needs to take her to hospital, also. I want her looked at."

The consulting detective's lip curls at the idea of having Mycroft over, but he doesn't object. He knows that it is inevitable if they are to find Alex. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his cell. "You call the station," Sherlock murmurs as he leaves. A second passes before John hears him continue from the adjoining room. "Mycroft, cut the pleasantries. Baker Street's been attacked."

John sighs and picks up his own phone as he sits beside Mrs. Hudson again. He dials and brings the device to his ear while taking the woman's hand in his other. "You okay?" he asks while it rings. Mrs. Hudson's eyes have slid shut, but she doesn't open them and only nods.

"John?"

"Lestrade." John takes a breath. "Are you busy?"

"Not at the moment, no. Why, is everything alright? Is Sherlock okay?"

Of course, his thoughts would immediately jump to Sherlock. "Sherlock's fine. Listen, I need you to come to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson's been attacked and Alex is gone."

There is a long pause on the other end of the line. "John, what do you mean by gone? She's missing?"

"She's been kidnapped. I need a team here now; Mycroft is on his way. And I need someone to take Mrs. Hudson to the hospital to check for concussion."

"Jesus, John, I'm so sorry." John hears Lestrade talking away from the phone for a moment. "I'll be right over with the squad. How are you taking it; I mean, are you alright?"

John heaves a sigh and releases Mrs. Hudson's hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he squeezes his eyes shut. No, he's not going to cry. Not now. He swallows. "I don't know."

"We'll be there soon. Hang in there." Then the line goes dead.

* * *

Alex is snatched from the peaceful darkness by the slamming of a car door. She starts, and her eyes fly open. This is immediately regretted, though, when her head screams in protest. She lets out a low moan and shifts her arm to block the light from reaching her eyes.

The door closest to her head opens and that smooth voice speaks again. "Rise and shine, beautiful," Jim coos gently. "Let's get you sorted out."

Alex gasps in surprise and fear as the same rough hands seize her shoulders and drag her out, head first. There is a confusing blur of light and sound and pain as she is jumbled around in Sebastian's arms once again. She wants to cry out, to fight, but she just can't seem to find the strength. So, Alex settles for staring wide-eyed at her surroundings to try to identify her location.

The walls, floor and ceiling are all dark concrete. A musty stench of mold hangs thickly in the air, and the heavy footsteps of her captors echo loudly in the large space. Looking around, she sees that their black car is the only object in sight, apart from low walls of cement every once in a while. A deserted parking garage, then, she deduces through the haze in her brain.

"Take her upstairs," Jim commands as they reach what appears to be a lift. "Make sure she's comfortable." He punches a button as Sebastian juggles the teenager's limp weight in his arms. Alex hisses slightly in pain as his bony arm digs into her ribs, and she notices Jim's look of warning out of the corner of his eye.

The lift arrives, and a few minutes later the three of them come out into an entirely different environment. Sebastian carries her out into a furnished living area as Jim vanishes into an adjoining room; it looks cozy, despite the lingering stench of must and hard water. A cool breeze blows from an electric fan, and Alex suddenly realizes she is shivering feverishly again. Her purple t-shirt sticks to her back, and she longs to shower the sweat from her long blonde hair. Sebastian takes her shaking form across the space to a red velvet couch and lowers her with surprising gentleness onto it while propping her head up with some pillows. Alex has to battle her eyelids to keep them open as blanket after blanket is thrown over her, and she takes this opportunity to finally get a look at the man named Sebastian.

He is of medium height and heavily built, not someone to mess with and the ideal right-hand man. His hair is topped with dark brown hair that matches his bushy eyebrows. Hard green eyes avoid Alex's as he follows Jim's orders; he obviously isn't pleased with this task. This fact only makes Alex's smugness grow, although it is soon overthrown by fear as Jim comes into her line of sight.

"Thank you, Seb," he murmurs softly. His venomous stare takes the ill girl in hungrily as the other man leaves the monster with his prize. He sits on the coffee table and sets a small mug beside him; the inviting scent of warm tea wafts up to Alex's nose. Jim smiles. "For you," he explains. "But first – do you mind?"

Alex's gaze drift to his other hand to see a thermometer there, held delicately between his forefinger and thumb. She looks back to his eyes, gentle and innocent and concerned. She doesn't buy it, but shakes her head anyway. Her stare doesn't leave Jim's face as he smiles again and tenderly slips the rod under her tongue and holds it there for her. "I want to know what we're dealing with," he says.

After a second, he removes it and checks the digital reading. His vacant smile disappears as if it had been smacked off of him and is replaced with a half open frown. Dark pupils flick up to meet blue irises. Then the back of his hand is on her head again; she hadn't processed the movement in her mind and starts at the contact. It is removed quickly, and the mug of tea is placed at her lips. Only now does Alex allow her eyes to close as she drinks graciously. It feels wonderful in her dry mouth and throat.

"Seems I've underestimated you," Jim mutters. "But don't worry; we'll want you well taken care of for John and Sherlock, won't we?"

Alex hears the grin in his words and opens her eyes as the empty cup is taken from her. But something's wrong; her vision is blurry and she's finding it hard to concentrate. His lips move, but she can't hear anything. She scrambles to sit up, yet the weight of the blankets is suddenly a crushing burden. It's so hot…

"You-drug'd-me," Alex slurs before collapsing against the cushions again, that cold smile the last thing her eyes register before becoming engulfed in darkness.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Well there's chapter 9, and I hope you enjoyed it :)

I just really feel the need right now to tell you about what a full out Sherlockian nerd-attack I'm having right now. I just watched the first season of Sherlock back-to-back while reading Sherlock on Fanfiction and scrolling through Tumblr. Best. Feeling. Ever.

And, tomorrow I'm going to a Sherlock party dressed as the lovely Dr. John Hamish Watson. :) We'll be watching ALL of the episodes nonstop and reenacting the most notable scenes. There may possibly be John Cake, too, if it's like our last party for Reichenbach.

Well, I'll stop rambling. Thanks for reading and putting up with my unhealthy fangirling!


	10. Chapter 10

"Alright," Lestrade announces briskly. "What do you know?"

The DI, Mycroft, Sherlock and John stand in a circle in the middle of the living area, where Alex had been before the break-in. Lestrade's arms are folded in a professional manner as police rush about collecting evidence. Mycroft leans on his signature umbrella with his brother to his right. Sherlock stands with his back erect and eyes alert, although he rests a comforting hand on John's injured left shoulder, every once in a while subconsciously squeezing it or rubbing the jumper with his thumb. The doctor's face is crumpled in worry for his niece, and his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

Sherlock glances sideways at John before launching into his quick-paced deductions. He points to the couch. "Alex was curled up on the couch, when she heard noises from downstairs. She was lying on her left side, face towards the rest of the room by the way she had ripped the blanket off of herself and gotten up. The cushions are also a little sagged, but in a small space, and the weight had been centered towards the back of the couch." He whirls to indicate his armchair. "She was dazed from illness, though, and stumbled, but didn't fall. The armchair is slightly out of place, but nothing else is. The table would be at an angle and the object's positions disturbed had she collapsed. She gripped it to keep her balance before going down the stairs."

The detective has started walking, following the path he is describing. He gets to the stairway and points to the threshold. "Alex made it this far before stopping to listen. She heard voices, masculine and threatening that caused her to hesitate. Then the sounds of Mrs. Hudson being attacked reached her and she hurried down the stairs; too fast for her physical state." At this point Sherlock starts to hurry down the stairs. His audience watches from above as he pauses halfway down and points to an upturned box of what appears to be human fingers. "She blacked out and tripped over my experiment before falling the rest of the way down to land," Sherlock leaps to a spot below the stairs and points, "here. The corner of the rug is slightly folded over from the impact. Only slightly, though, because a struggle ensued. One of the men approached her fallen form, perhaps even kicked her, and she scrambled to crouch against the wall."

At this point, Sherlock kneels beside the designated place and looks from where Alex's face would have been. As he is lost in imagining what she had seen, the rest of the men take this opportunity to join him back on the first floor. Sherlock doesn't acknowledge them as he continues. "By now she was panicking. She sat here, arms probably raised in defense against her attacker. She was confused from passing out, and all she could see was a man approaching threateningly." He suddenly points a long finger to a spot beside him. "That's when the other man appeared from the kitchen and told the other man to step aside. His shoe scuffed the floor - you'll want to take a sample. The other man was obviously the leader; he was the one who attacked Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock leaps to his feet, startling the onlookers. "Tall and thin, judging by the injuries on Mrs. Hudson and the damages found in the kitchen. They're high and made by a strong man, but not bad enough to be made by a bulky man. So thin, yet not quite lanky. He must have been acting rather mysteriously, because Alex stayed where she was. She didn't move to make an escape, but was in fact intrigued by him. He may have knelt in front of her, talked to her and calmed her down. Then he ordered the other man to take her out. He, unlike the leader, is burly and strong. Average height; he was able to control her easily."

Sherlock walks slowly towards the door. "That's when Mrs. Hudson emerged from her kitchen. The man attacked her again, beat her with something hard and blunt. The butt of a gun. By now, Alex was starting to fade from consciousness and could fight no more as they left."

The men are silent as the detective gazes toward the door to the street. All the while, John had been trying his best to keep hold of his composure as Sherlock relayed what he saw in that brilliant mind. But as the story comes to a close, the army doctor finds himself crumbling. He runs a shaky hand through his hair and curses himself. He has to stay professional, to not let his mask down. "You're sure of this?" John hopes his voice doesn't sound as weak as he feels.

The detective nods without looking at his friend. John can't help but feel that he is pretending not to notice his anxiety. Mycroft pats his back reassuringly, but he looks awkward doing it. Neither of the Holmes brothers are good with emotions.

"I checked the surveillance," the British government announces, "But I didn't find anything. I do know, however, that the whole ordeal hardly lasted five minutes. There was a jump in footage between 11:07 and 11:13. Whoever did this hacked the system and stopped filming during the incident."

Sherlock nods and steeples his fingers. He commences pacing in his concentration. "They're smart, well organized. They knew what they were doing. But why?" He rounds on the others as Donovan passes with an eye roll that goes ignored. "Why would they do this? Why Alex?" Sherlock suddenly straightens. His eyes are bright, and he lowers his hands in a gesture that can only indicate an epiphany. "Of course," he whispers.

Lestrade exchanges a puzzled look with the rest of the audience. "What is it?"

Sherlock's eyes dart to look at them as if he had forgotten about their presence. "Don't you see it? It's painfully obvious."

"No," John shakes his head and licks his lips. "No, we don't. Care to enlighten us?"

Sherlock gapes at them. "It must be so boring to be you," he mutters. "What is it like in your minds? Calls for an experiment…"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade crosses his arms again in his classic DI pose.

The consulting detective nods briskly. "Right." He takes a breath and gestures with an open hand to the kitchen. "When they came to the flat, they knew we were gone. 11:07. Exactly half an hour after we left. They never intended to come for us; they wanted to take what was dearest to both of us. Their initial target was Mrs. Hudson; they didn't even know Alex was here. Oh, sure, they had heard rumors, but they didn't believe that John actually had a kid. Until she made an appearance. When Alex came down the stairs, the two of them were preparing to leave with our landlady. But, they had found a better target, someone whose kidnapping would strike more distress into us. That was their goal all along, to weaken us and distract us." Here he stops, and that troubled look returns. "Why? What are they distracting us from?"

John frowns. The thoughts that fly through Sherlock's brain now don't have to be voiced aloud; they are also flooding the minds of the rest of the group. The men are going to strike again, much harder than this. And despite the pain, they have to be ready. They have to find her, but can't afford to let it distract them. They have to be prepared, and that means letting go of any feelings that currently hold them back. So John turns his back to his companions, and allows himself to fall apart.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So there you go, chapter ten! I hope you liked it; it was written rather quickly. If you did enjoy it, leave a review! If you didn't, leave a review! I know, people hate it when authors beg for reviews too. But this is my first fic, and I'd really like to know how I'm doing. Just something quick, anything is appreciated!

Thanks for reading, and happy writing!


	11. Chapter 11

Alex awakens sometime later to the comforting feeling of cool, clean sheets wrapped around her body. She snuggles into them for a moment, grateful for their presence, when memories suddenly rush back to her. Her blue eyes snap open in fright, and she bolts upright to find herself in a bed. It is small, meant for a child smaller than her, but a bed nonetheless. In a bedroom.

Ignoring the slight throbbing in her head, Alex scans the room quickly. It is small, with only one window that is thin and high up on the wall, like that of a basement. Hope boils in Alex's heart as she slips herself out of the bed and looks around. On account of the size of the room, there is few furniture. Aside from the bed, there is a small desk, chair, and bedside table. All dark mahogany.

Alex seizes the chair and pulls it quietly over to the space under the window. She scrambles up onto it and peeks out into the world. Disappointment blossoms inside her as she is met with the view of a dirty alleyway. Nothing of significance.

The teenager hops down and goes to the desk. The top of it is spotless, so she goes drawer to drawer. She finds a beaten Bible, a notebook, three discarded pens, and a candy wrapper. Alex sniffs it; mint. She selects the Bible and notebook and sits on the bed.

Upon flipping through the notebook, she discovers that, unfortunately, it is blank. There are a few ripped out pages, but everything that remains is untouched. The same is true with the Bible. There are no notes or underlines passages or anything. No markings anywhere. She throws it aside in frustration, and lowers herself to the floor.

Alex pulls back the blankets that hang over the side of the bed to peer underneath. It takes her eyes a second to adjust to the darkness, but once they do she spots a few items and pulls them out. She can't help but smile at her findings.

The first is a jumper. It looks a bit big, but it is the same exact as John's oatmeal cable-knit one. As Alex looks it over, she frowns to see that it is a bit big and will hang slightly off her slender figure. Yet it is a reminder of home, and Alex hugs it close as she examines her other findings.

The second is a black hairbrush with a hair tie wrapped around the handle. This Alex is grateful for as she works her fingers through a knot in her long blonde hair. Next is a tennis ball, which she puzzles over for a moment but eventually sets aside. It is the final object that intrigues her the most: a red box with a combination lock.

Alex studies it with a look of deep concentration in her blue eyes. She bites her lip. It is about the size of a shoebox, and doesn't weigh much. The combination is four digits; it will take hours to decipher by guessing. There has to be a clue around here somewhere, some sort of indication as to what the combination is. But there's nothing else here!

The troubled teenager sits on the bed with the box as she runs the brush through her hair and ties it back. Her fingers delicately begin to turn the dials. She looks for marks on the numbers and any sticking in the rotations, but finds nothing. Alex tucks a stray piece of hair and settles down to start entering random numbers.

After a while of fruitless attempts, Alex lays back and closes her eyes. She decides to get some rest then come back to it with a clear mind.

* * *

John sits in his chair with his hands curled around a mug of hot tea. Sherlock sits opposite him in that stiff leather chair, pale fingers steepled under his chin and icy eyes gazing at John with a certain fierceness. John knows that he should probably feel uncomfortable at such an intense stare, but he is so far gone that a normal reaction to anything just isn't possible for him at the moment.

As soon as John had turned his back, Sherlock had known something was wrong. Then the sobs that wracked his friend's body had started, and Sherlock had immediately pulled him upstairs and into their own flat. He had ushered everyone out of the room, telling them urgently that they could continue their petty investigations later and shutting the door behind them. There was only one other person that the detective had allowed to remain, and that was Lestrade. The DI is the only one Sherlock trusts to share John's pain with; he knows that Lestrade will be able to handle it and won't make snide comments about the doctor's weakness or go blabbing about it later.

The DI sits in the desk chair that he had pulled closer to the two flatmates and sits with his hands folded in front of him. His head is bowed as he stares at the floor and waits for a moment when he is needed. He knows that making himself scarce until such a moment arises is exactly what John needs and only what Sherlock will tolerate. The detective's patience can grow very thin very fast when it comes to his army doctor. He had learned that quickly.

John heaves a shuddering sigh and lifts the mug to his lips. He doesn't drink though, and Sherlock's concentrated stare softens a bit.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock's voice is hard, but somehow laced with concern. It is a tone that only he can pull off and make genuine.

John's broken eyes flicker up to Sherlock's. He takes another heavy breath and nods into his tea.

Sherlock frowns. "I know you aren't, John."

Something in John's deflated mood seems to break even further as he sets his cup on the table beside him. "Please, for five minutes could you leave your bloody deductions out of this?"

Lestrade looks up at John at this statement. He sounds so hollow, so irreparable. Then Sherlock does something that shocks the DI even more. He leans forward, reaches across the short distance between him and John and _takes his hand._

It just seems so…odd. So unlike Sherlock to do something so utterly human. Lestrade finds himself gaping at their hands; Sherlock grips John's right fingers with his left hand and squeezes ever so slightly. John lets him.

Lestrade suddenly feels uncomfortable. He doesn't believe for one moment that there is anything between the doctor and the detective, yet he can't help the feeling that he is intruding on something he shouldn't. His discomfort fails to go unnoticed by Sherlock.

"Do relax, Lestrade. Surely you don't have such a closed mind as the rest of them?"

The DI tears his gaze away; he feels his cheeks burning in embarrassment. Sherlock's frown deepens as his unwavering stare studies John. He gives his fingers another reassuring squeeze.

"John, you know I'm crap at these things. But you're hurting, and I won't let that go unacknowledged." He pauses, as if thinking. His free hand plays with the sleeve of his right forearm. When he continues, Sherlock's voice is unnaturally calm and comforting. "She'll be okay, John."

John blinks hard and looks away. A few tears trickle down his round face. "You can't be sure of that. No one can."

Sherlock gives him a half-smile. "You're right. But we can do a hell of a job ensuring that she is. And that starts with you, making sure the man she'll need most when we find her is okay."

John suddenly frowns and looks at Sherlock. "Why are you doing this?"

He looks confused and even glances quickly at Lestrade. "What do you mean?"

John tugs his hand free of Sherlock. He gestures wildly around them. "_This._ You're comforting me. You never comfort anyone; it isn't you. Unless," John's eyes widen, and he leans back in his chair. "Unless it's for the case." He chuckles dryly, not amused in the slightest. "Of course; you don't really care. You never care. It's just to help make some bloody revelation occur in that bloody mind of yours. You're using me. I don't know how, and frankly, I don't care. All I care about is saving Alex."

John gets up, ready to storm off in a miserable haze, but Sherlock beats him to it with a hand on his shoulder. Lestrade leans back in his chair at the sudden height that the other men have gained on him in order to still see their faces. He can only watch in quiet amazement at the scene unfolding before him.

"John, wait. I'm sorry if it seems that way, but you're wrong. I care about you. I really do. I hate seeing you like this, and I want so badly to help. I'm not using you for anything; you have to believe me. I care about you, John, so much."

John can only stare at him. Then, slowly, he melts. His rigid shoulders relax, and his eyes soften from daggers to pools of honey. He looks at Sherlock with an expression of pure sorrow. "I miss her, Sherlock. I'm so worried about her."

"I know." Then Sherlock does something that Lestrade would never have seen coming. He pulls John into a warm embrace. "We'll find her." There is a moment of silence as Sherlock rubs his hand up and down John's back. "Lestrade, please close your mouth now. You're lucky a fly hasn't found home in there yet."

The DI realizes that Sherlock's words are true, having not noticed it, and quickly does as he is told and looks away. He can feel his already pink face darkening to a deep red in embarrassment and irritation. He hears John chuckle before Sherlock continues.

"Honestly, Greg, do keep up. I thought you of all people would understand our relationship as close but in no way romantic. I guess I was wrong." He sighs, sounding thoroughly disappointed. They still haven't parted from the hug, and Sherlock rests his cheek on his friend's blonde head. "What are we ever to do with him, John?"

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**There was a bit of a wait for you guys, so I decided to apologise with some fluff. Hope it helps!**

**Sorry I haven't been updating lately; I've been busy with writing other stories and life outside the lovely world of fanfiction. *sigh* I have so much to do...**

**Anyway, time between updates may start to grow longer. I'll be out of state for the next few days, and I probably won't be able to access my lap top much - if at all. So it'll be a bit of a wait for both of my stories.**

**Also, if anyone is interested, I'm currently working on a little one-shot that should be up soon. Feel free to check it out once it's up! (Yes, I did just shamelessly promote my other writings! Don't we all?)**

**Thanks for reading, my lovelies!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:**

**So I'd like to apologize for the delay. I've been a bit busy and distracted lately and haven't had time to get this typed up. I haven't forgotten about you all, though! I'd never do that!**

**Thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed/favorited/alerted this! It really makes my day to see that people are taking an interest in what comes spewing out of my muddled brain. So thanks again!**

**This chapter is a bit longer, and it's all from Alex. So for those of you who are interesting in the troubled teenager, here you go! I promise there will be more of our boys in the next chapter, though. I can't keep them away for long!**

**Well, I'll stop rambling now and get on with it. Thanks again to all my lovely readers, and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The stubborn throbbing in Alex's head has made no attempts at departure when Alex next rejoins the conscious world. She remembers vaguely, though, to be thankful that the rest of her symptoms have gone. Finally.

But as Alex thinks about this, she frowns and opens her troubled blue eyes. After feeling so low, why did her illness end so suddenly? Unless she had been out for longer than the previously assumed few hours. Days, perhaps, was the real length that the drug had seized control of her body. Her internal clock, however, argues against this theory. It certainly doesn't feel like she had slept for days before first awakening in this small bedroom.

The girl shakes her head and pulls herself into a sitting position. Mild embarrassment pricks at her to see that her arms are still tangled in the oatmeal jumper, having cuddled it close in her sleep. She extracts her weary limbs from the fabric and lays it across her lap. Looking down at the hardwood floor, Alex spots the locked box in the same spot she had deposited it before. Curling her lip at the idea of tackling it again so soon, Alex instead stands to search the room for any missed clues as to what the combination could be. She can't help but feel that she had missed something in her first examination.

Nothing new is in any of the drawers or pages, so Alex tries the window again. She leaps onto the chair, pointedly ignoring the protest that her aching head gives, and peeks out. Her eyes sweep along the dusty ground before lighting on an object that hadn't been there before. It is a little ways away from the window, so Alex has to squint a bit in order to see it properly.

It is a small scrap of paper, and something is written on it in deep black ink. A number: 319.

Alex feels her heart soar for a second. Could this be the combination? She jumps down in hr excitement and rushes to the box, pulling it hastily into her lap. Her heart sinks immediately, though, as she realizes how stupid a mistake she had made. 319. Three digits. The combination consists of four; if this is indeed part of the combination she is missing an entire number. But why would they give her an unfinished combination? No; this can't be it. It's a clue. _But what does it mean?_

Alex frowns and sets the box down on the mattress and sits before it, head in her hands as she stares at it, thinking. 319. What is 319? A time when something will happen or be revealed? No, it can't be. There's no clock here. Why give her a time if she can't anticipate its arrival? Something else, then.

The teenager's eyes drift attentively around the small space in hopes of being inspired. They drift to the desk, to the notebook abandoned there. The Bible.

_The Bible._

A triumphant smile rises to Alex's lips as she clambers across the small space to the book. Of course! The combination is in the Bible. How had she not realized this sooner? It's so obvious! She shakes her head and stubbornly blames her slowness on her headache, which has abated somewhat in the hunt for clues but not gone completely.

She tenderly cradles the Bible in her hands as she flips briskly to page 319. The sight that greets her only sends her spiraling back into confusion. Marked in yellow highlighter in the middle of the page is a single word: believe. It is small enough to easily have been passed in her previous inspections. She could have flipped blindly for ages and never have spotted it; it's likely she would have torn the poor thing apart in frustration before spotting it.

But why? What does this mean? Believe. Believe in what, exactly? Was she wrong? Does this have anything to do with the combination? It has to, though. She can't give up; she just has to think.

Alex walks unhurriedly back to the bed and sits down heavily. She spends a few minutes gazing down at the highlighted word as theories and utter guesses race through her muddled brain. Her determination is unyielding, though, and she soon pacing in her concentration.

Alex stoops to snatch up the forgotten tennis ball. She bounces it experimentally, and it returns to her hand with ease. Mouth set in a hard frown, Alex settles against the wall between the foot of her bed and the desk. She plays catch with herself by throwing the ball against the opposing wall and allowing it to bounce back to her waiting hands. This goes on for some time as Alex tries to make sense of her discovery.

Yet after about half an hour, she lets the ball roll away and finds her attention drifting to her captors. Where are they? They haven't bothered to make an appearance since the initial kidnapping, which she finds a little odd and unnerving. Alex has limited knowledge of matters such as this, but doesn't the captor at least show up every once in a while after locking their prisoners away? Maybe not, from what she's experiencing. Why should they? They'll probably just leave her to starve or die of dehydration before bothering to make themselves noticed. Suffer alone and scared until rescue comes. Or fails to come.

Alex doesn't realize she is crying until the tears have snaked their way down her cheeks and plop in thick puddle on her hands, twisted and useless in her lap. She does nothing to prevent them, though, just lets them stream along her skin and leave a sting in her eyes. Her mouth hangs open as she sucks in each breath and exhales in what can only be described as broken sobs. Her shoulders tremble with the force of each one, and she gropes for the jumper once more. Screw appearances.

She buries her face in the comforting fabric; thoughts of Baker Street and John weave their way into her mind and around her heart. "John," Alex whispers in a strangled whisper. "John. Please, John. I need you." A painful sob jerks her body, and she makes a sound like a wounded animal. She's too tortured to care if her captors hear, though. "I'm scared John. Save me."

* * *

Alex's eyes crack open in the dim light, and at first she is overcome with confusion. She is curled into a tight ball on the floor as her hands wring at the abused jumper. The fabric is damp, and her head feels foggy and swollen. Then the memories start to creep back. 319. Believe. Breaking down. Weeping.

She shakes her head and climbs carefully to her feet; she hadn't meant to fall asleep. Her head spins a little as she stretches her sore limbs before taking a seat on the bed. She rubs at her eyes, puffy from crying, and doesn't hesitate to dig the heels of her palms into them. The action leaves her seeing spots. Alex knows she should clear off the bed and try to rest, but she suddenly feels agitated. She wants to run. It's a silly desire, but the girl's limbs are filled with strange energy from being cooped up for so long. She hasn't had any proper exercise since she first contracted her illness, and her body is itching for freedom.

Alex shakes her head as an incredulous feeling arises at the turn her thoughts have taken. She's sitting here, a bloody _prisoner_, and all she can think about is running. She should at least be turning these musings into a plan for escape, shouldn't she? It's only logical.

Logical. Alex curls her lip at the word. She hates it. All logic, it seems, has abandoned her lately. She was raped. Twice. _Twice._ How the hell is that even a little bit logical? And now she's been kidnapped with only a locked box and shit for clues on how to open it. Logic? Alex doesn't think so.

She sighs and shakes her head, but stops when something catches her eye. Her head turns to see a plate with a small sandwich and a glass of water. There is also a note.

Alex's stomach grumbles, and she puts a nervous hand to it. She suddenly realizes how hungry she has been but not noticed, and slowly makes her way around the bed to stand before the offering. Delicate fingers select the white index card first.

_Thought you might be hungry. Wouldn't want you to get light-headed or take a Fall._

_Have you figured it out yet?_

_xxx Jim_

Alex flips the card over, only to find the other side blank. She stares at it for a long moment as she rereads the words again and again. One thing sticks out to her and leaves her mind spinning: Fall. Why is it capitalized? It must be important; a clue. She picks up the sandwich and studies it with mild suspicion. After the incident with the tea, Alex isn't taking any chances. It is a simple thing; cheddar cheese, turkey and lettuce between two sliced of wheat bread. She picks the layers apart one by one as she checks for out of place powders or liquids. Finding none, her teeth sink hungrily into the food. She drinks the water too after a similar examination.

As she eats, her thoughts dance circles around the clues she has gathered. Believe and Fall. Her chewing mouth sets into a hard frown. Annoyance begins to bubble in the pit of her stomach; why can't she seem to put it together? Alex feels that it should be obvious, and as she sets her empty plate and glass aside, she flops back with an irritated groan. Her fingertips brush the jumper, and she picks it up for the umpteenth time. It is so like her uncle's, like John's favorite. Alex holds it up above her head, and her blue eyes take in the pattern eagerly. As she does so, her brain begins to puzzle over the jumper's presence also.

Why would her captors give her this? To make her comfortable and feel at home? All at once it seems unlikely. She can't picture that man – Jim – ever feeling sorry for his prize and providing something of comfort. Could it mean something? But what?

Alex's gaze drifts to the note again. Believe and Fall. Could these two words have anything to do with John? Is that what the jumper means? But what do those two words have to do with her uncle?

Her arms have started to ache a bit from holding the jumper in this awkward position, so she swings her legs towards her body to use as leverage and sits up. She lays the wooly jumper in front of her and stares at it as her mind mulls over everything she has gathered. _'Think, Alex, how do these things connect to John? Or the flat? Or maybe even…'_

"Sherlock," she finishes aloud. A small grin rises to her lips. "Of course."


End file.
